Page:Elizabeth Jordan--Tales of the cloister.djvu/289

 as she hazarded her question that evening. Saint Ernesta looked up at her from the low chair in which she was resting, and a twinkle appeared in her faded brown eyes, as a sudden spark flashes out in the twilight. She hesitated a moment, and then she laughed—such a spontaneous, natural, gay laugh as no one had heard from her for years. She wiped her eyes after it, with a staid and distinctly apologetic smile.

"Inquisitive May," she said, "I will tell you. I know that child—every impulse in her, every oddly twisted side of her—as well as I know my breviary. Why? Well, that is a secret, but you shall have it. Because, a little matter of seventy years ago, I was as exactly like her as this bead is like its mate. I—was—just—as—bad—as—I—could—be!"

She observed May Iverson's awe-struck look, and a smile of reminiscent glee lit her sweet old face. "Remember, though," she added, encouragingly, "we have both reformed!"